The Jesus Story

"... the Holy Ghost witnesseth in every city..." - Acts 20:23

he first time it happened it was in the classroom.  I was pickin’ trash up off the floor after all the students had left at the end of the day.  For no particular reason I happened to turn a scrap of magazine over in my hand before droppin’ it into the garbage can an’ low and behold what do you figger I saw?  Yup.  Jesus.

I don’t know how it got there.  Probably some student used the cut-out on his or her presentation board and it flaked off and got left on my classroom floor.  But there it was in my hand, a ragged scrap of paper with a photographic-image of Jesus hanging on the cross printed on it in brilliant grayscale.  I stood there for a long moment, my hand poised over the trashcan.  Then I realized I just couldn’t do it.  I just couldn’t throw Jesus in the trash.  Not even a scrappy magazine cutting of Jesus.

Above the dry-erase board in my classroom there were some clips so I reached up and slipped Jesus into one of the clips.  And there he stayed for some time.  I’m not quite certain when he disappeared (probably during interim cleaning or some such occasion) but it wasn’t before students on numerous occasions made audible inferences about me and my spiritual positioning based soley on the Jesus cut out hanging there.

Before Jesus disappeared from the dry-erase board clip, however, there was another incident.  This time it was behind the Atomic Cycles bicycle shop in Van Nuys.  I had ridden in to participate in the Tuesday Night BMX cruise the shop’s owner, Paul, coordinates.  We all waited in the parking lot behind the shop while Paul closed up and lo and behold what do you suppose transpired?

Let me tell you.  As I was loitering in the parking lot, its disintegrating asphalt layers broken by weed-choked cracks, I noticed a reflective flash from amongst the blades of green.  I leaned over and withdrew a tiny object from the crack’s resident clump and found myself in possession of a tiny redwood necklace-style cross adorned with a simple metal frame.  Now, I’m not much for simple crucifixes, bein’ leary of Tamus an’ all that, and I was ready to toss the jewelry back down into its parking lot hiding place but then a notable event happened.  I rolled the cross between my thumb and forefinger and, as the charm rotated, guess what was revealed to me that was adorning the side that had been hidden from me?  Yup.  Jesus.

There he was, in extreme miniature, cast out of some shiny metal, arms outstretched across the tiny cross I had picked up from the parking lot.  Again I stood there for a long moment, my hand poised to flick the object back into the weeds pressing upwards from the cracked parking lot.  But I just couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t toss Jesus away like that.  The other BMXers chided me when I told them what was going on, of course, but I slipped Jesus into my bicycle bag and carried him there until that bag was lost years later.

However, my story ain’t finished.  Jesus showed up yet again.  One day some students in my classroom, boys, were attempting to operate a below the radar ruckus but their stifled giggling and frantic gestures between one another quickly brought down my wrath.  I saw they were passing a piece of paper between each other, placing it back and forth on one another’s desks where the recipient would quickly attempt to bestow it upon another participant in the fracas.  I confiscated the missive without breaking teaching stride, much to their curious glee I noted, and when I looked into my hand to determine what I had picked up, guess what I saw?  Yup.  Jesus.

The young fellers had been passin’ back a forth a Catholic prayer card.  You know, one of them Jesus, the Divine Mercy “Jesus I Trust in You” type cards.  And there on the card, in full brilliant color, were Jesus descendin’ from the clouds, his heart shootin’ forth them beams of spiritual illumination.  The boys had obviously been passin’ it back-and-forth because none of them were comfortable hangin’ onto it but none of them had the nerve to dispose of it in some way either.  And so it came to be in my possession.  And I don’t have a very good track record with these things as you’ve probably noted.

The culprits eyed me with humorous anticipation, obviously waitin’ to see what I would do with the object that they themselves had been hard pressed to deal with in what felt to them an appropriate manner.  And again I stood there, this time with the Jesus card in my hand, considering what to do with it myself.

Finally, I looked up at them and rolled my eyes, sayin’, “Sorry, gentlemen, but I just can’t throw away Jesus” and I slipped the card into my breast pocket and continued with class.

Driving home that day I found that card in my pocket and, for lack of any better solution, I slipped it into the molding on the dashboard of my car.  Where it still sits, Jesus eyeing me speculatively every time I drive, his hand raised in holy gesture and the Heavenly beams of comfort shining forth from his heart.

And the moral to this story is that “you never know what it is you’re going to pick up.”

Okay, okay.  It’s probably more something along the lines of “when Jesus is trying to get yer attention, it’s unmistakable.”

Yup.

THE SEARCHERS - Touchy Ideology in John Ford's Epic

THE SEARCHERS TO CELLULOID

Touchy Ideology and Audience Conditioning

The Searchers (John Ford 1956)

by Squeezebox Sam

          What makes a man to wander?

          What makes a man to roam?

          What makes a man leave bed and board and turn his back on home?

          Ride away… ride away… ride away…

  

                                                - Stan Jones

John Ford, as director of the 1956 film adaptation of Alan Le May’s book The Searchers (published serially in 1954 as The Avenging Texans), maintains the western formula he himself established with Stagecoach in 1939.  But operating on a deeper level is a careful balance between upholding the main character as the monumental hero the story demands while denouncing the ideology that drives his actions.  This balance is achieved by Ford’s manipulation of audience point of view at crucial moments.

Michael Wood, in his book America in the Movies, suggests that Hollywood may often have set out with every intention of providing a text in social history but came up with snappy entertainment at best.  He calls it a “veritable school of evasion,” a way for Hollywood to play it safe on almost any issue: “why drive off customers by treading on their prejudices?”  The “problems” addressed in films are actually an “intrepid indictment of a situation about which there would already have seemed to be some consensus.” (Wood, pp. 126-127)

George Bluestone makes similar observations in Novels Into Film.  His discussion concerning the film code and strictures of acceptability (restraints affecting Hollywood production long after a standardized system) suggests suppression of artistic and social vision by audience demands. (Bluestone, pp. 34-43)

It is tempting, then, to view The Searchers as a film handicapped by this presentation funny-business because, at first, it appears that the film is carefully constructed to protect and shield the audience from its controversial content.  A good example is the combination of the opening and closing sequences, the most audience orienting scenes in the whole film.

The opening moments present a sort of glass through which the rest of the film is to be viewed and the end scene reinforces that original vision.  By using the camera to give the audience a specific vantage point of the situation, and aligning a specific ideology with that vantage point, the audience will take up that ideology and view events in that specific manner.  In this case the audience begins and ends its journey in a settler home, the abode of right, the residence of wholesome, traditional values.

In the opening scene, the audience ventures out of the safety of this homely archetype where they meet Ethan Edwards, a character of questionable ethics.  He is a decorated war veteran of the Confederacy, an Indian skeptic, and quite possible a criminal.  He is also a product of the outside world: a dangerous, unrighteous place.

In the final scene the audience recedes into the Jorgensen house, again the abode of what is right.  John Wayne, however, even in his position as redeemed hero, is not allowed to assimilate.  He is not permitted to enter into the viewer’s space.  When our harrowing experiences at his side should be resolved, Ethan Edwards is kept as far from us as possible.

According to Wood, it could be said that the film never really asks the audience to question where their loyalties lie.  As a viewer, once begins and ends inside the innocence of a settler home, the side of right.  That which is questionable appears firmly locked out, untouchable, impermissible.  The film seems to avoid addressing its controversial content by orienting the audience on the “right” so that it will not be required to confront the possibility that its loyalties might very well be sympathetic to the “wrong” ideology.

However, in accepting such a shallow interpretation an injustice is done to such a texturally rich film.  Upon closer examination, The Searchers yields up much to defend itself against accusation of insufficiently addressing its issues.  It reveals itself as a complex and thought provoking endeavor and acts as a scathing denunciation of its main character’s driving ideology.  Its premise is indeed commentary on the complex isolation and bitterness in the character of Ethan Edwards.  We cannot discard The Searchers as a film handicapped by the prejudices of its times.  It is laden with perpetual meaning carefully woven into its rich tapestry.

About halfway through Alan Le May’s book there is a description of the Southwest as a “never-never country of song and illicit love, with a streak of wicked bloody murder interestingly hidden just under a surface of ease and manana.”

The words are those of Amos Edwards, the Ethan Edwards of the written page.  His descriptive poetry is a little contrived when historical reality is held up for comparison but it is a fairly accurate description of the fictional tale itself.  The book, as does the film, centers around the consuming nature of retribution, how it destroys everything involved, including those who perpetuate it.

Ford’s Southwest, as in Le May’s book, is sweeping pastels and adobe, indifferent to the delicate balance of civilization and savagery within its bounds.  Ford continually challenges us with this savagery.  From the moment the audience leaves the Edwards home in the opening sequence, Ethan’s quest reveals the delicate balance of savagery within the man himself.

Even so, it is the changes between the film and book that reveal the depth of Ford’s adaptation.  Some differences include changing the Mathisons into the immigrant settler Jorgensens and making Martin Pauley 1/8 Cherokee.  However, probably the most prominent, and most important, changes are those made to the Edwards character himself.  Le May’s Edwards is not a dedicated Confederate, nor is there an innuendo of criminality.  Most evident is his lack of blind hate for Indians.  He seeks vengeance for the death of his brother’s wife, but his wrath is not distributed over the entire indigenous population.

When it is discovered that Le May’s Edwards is far less incendiary than the one portrayed by John Wayne, suspicion abounds.  It leads to speculation that increasing the fiery nature of a tale is no way to tame it to satisfy audience prejudice.  The question arises, then, that if Ford was playing it safe with controversy, as Michael Wood suggests filmmakers do, why heat it up with these potentially explosive elements?  Unless the intention was indeed to make commentary on an already blazing situation.

Many times over the course of the film we are tempted to side with Ethan, the horror of the situation seeming to render acceptable his desperate measures.  Whenever it is in question, though, Ethan’s ideology is always degraded, loud and clear, for the audience.  A good example is when Ethan encounters the “crazy” white girl refugees at the military encampment.  Wayne’s final glare, his steely eyes peering from the deep shadow cast by his black hat across his soul, is a most forbidding image.  This is not a man that invites the audience to his side.

Judgment on Ethan’s character is also accomplished by deriding commentary.  In both the buffalo slaughter sequence and when Ethan makes the decision to kill Deborah, Martin Pauley’s voice denounces Ethan’s actions.  The stubborn façade Ethan assumes at these moments also alienates the audience.

Careful examination of audience placement, whether it is how Edwards is portrayed to them, where they view him from or what other characters say about him, reveals that the production is a deliberate attack on Ethan Edwards’ convictions.

“Prodigal brother,” as Ward Bond puts it, is an apt description for Ethan Edwards.  He is indeed the hero of the film but he is a hero with a looming dark side.  We can never fully appreciate Edwards’ efforts because of our own uncertainty about his true nature.  Because the ruthlessness that lurks within him almost went too far, we cannot be sure that he has actually redeemed himself.  Even in saving Deborah and returning her to where she will be cared for, we cannot help but feel that she is safe not just from Indians or enemies, but from Ethan Edwards himself.

So, the end sequence becomes a powerful denunciation of what lurks inside Ethan.  Even with his heroic actions, the message to the audience is that he cannot be condoned.  Unlike the prodigal son of the Bible, the prodigal brother cannot be brought back into the fold.  If he was shown as the assimilated hero, forgiven, his past would be submerged and forgotten.  But the image the audience retains will always be that of him standing outside the door of the settler home, exiled as a judgment for those past actions for which he may never be reconciled.

Something else noteworthy in Ford’s crafting, however, is that Ethan denies himself entry into the Jorgensen home.  While not justifying him, his decision does give deeper insight into who he may be.  It hints at a richness of character that has not been examined here, and while Ford will not permit us to side with or condone Ethan, neither are we as an audience permitted to truly judge him.

Perhaps, if the tears in his eyes at the sight of his brother’s burnt homestead were our own, we might better understand his words: “I don’t need you for what I’ve got to do…”  It is this final amount of self-realization for Ethan, that he cannot be part of the audience’s world, that Ford leaves us with, and perhaps the director’s greatest accomplishment in The Searchers is putting the audience in a position to receive an unsettling glimpse of “what makes a man to wander.”

Works Cited

Bluestone, George. Novels Into Film. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California             Press, 1957. Print.

Le May, Alan. The Searchers. New York: Harper and Brothers, 1954. Print.

McDougal, Stuart Y. Made Into Movies: From Literature to Film. New York: Harcourt             Brace Jovanovich College Publishers, 1985. Print.

The Searchers. Dir. John Ford. Warner Brothers, 1956. Film.

Wood, Michael. America in the Movies. New York: Dell Publishing, 1975. Print.

There's a Hole in Yer Music Collection an' it's called The Jug or Nots

The Jug or Nots

Anachronism is in.  Men (and women) are sportin’ waxed-up moustaches.  Craft libation makin’ is all the rage.  Midnight cyclists fantasize their neon fixed-gear bicycles earning them a spot in the lineage of daring penny-farthing riders from days of yore.

Anachronism has also been makin’ inroads in popular music as of late (again).  There are banjos on mainstream radio.  The bluegrass/hip-hop alchemy of Justified’s theme song has been nominated for an Emmy.  Baz Luhrmann’s revisioning of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby foxtrots to Andre 3000.

The nature of anachronism, however, is just that.  It’s anachronistic.  There’s always the omnipresent reminder that an out-of-time cultural reference is being made.  This isn’t a bad thing.  Anachronism exists for a reason.  But it’s also important to remember that interest in the “real thing” has also survived the test of time, and with Southern California’s Jug or Nots’ self-titled first release, that’s exactly what you are getting.  The real thing.

The Jug or Nots play traditional American street music from the 1920s and 1930s, and they do it all acoustic with bonafide traditional instruments including cigar box guitar, kazoo, washboard, and various kitchen utensils.  They perform as an ensemble on street corners, farmers markets, harvest festivals, tiny juke joint stages, and from the flatbed of parading hay wagons.  And when you see (and hear) them perform, you’re hard pressed to shake the feeling that perhaps you’ve momentarily slipped through a warp of some kind and are witnessing contemporaries of Cannon’s Jug Stompers or the Mississippi Shieks.  There’s no Twilight Zone here, though, folks.  The Jug or Nots are the real thing… and that’s just what they set out to deliver with their first studio recording: the Real Thing.  Good news.  They succeeded.

The Jugs’ initial recording offering is a collection of traditional and original tunes committed to posterity with the utmost care in preserving the “accurate” feel and sound the band works so hard to evoke with their live performances.  There is no anachronism here.  These gents determined to provide us with a set of songs that truly sound like they are from an earlier, simpler time, and that’s exactly what the listener comes away with.  If you like your jug music to actually sound like it was made in a time when jug music was king, this is the recording (and band) for you.  Their rendition of the “Spider-Man” theme will have you doubting your own cache of pop culture knowledge.  They make it sound like such a tried and true jug band tune that you’ll be googling the superhero’s history to assure yourself that you haven’t been wrong in your assumptions all this time and that Spider-Man is not actually a 1930s contribution to the comic world.

Don’t give up on anachronism, but don't mistake the Jug or Nots for such.  If you have a soft spot for a contemporary band that can transport you wholly into a bygone era, causing you to momentarily forget that the recording you are listening to is not actually 80 years old, then the Jug or Nots (and their CD) are the band for you.  They are traditional, heartfelt, bawdy, and very talented at the niche they are carving out for themselves.  Try them.  They’ll have you believin’ that “the sales tax is on it” is a brand new contention for regular fellers everywhere.

Lay yer hands on it here: http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/jugornots

Watch 'em here:  http://youtu.be/WHG7JdOi7Ms 

Some Things I Wanna Say 'Bout The Kingdom of Not

This here commentary is wholly unsolicited, an' far past the oven timer of immediacy (not, however, past the oven timer of relevancy), but I got some things to say...

Journey to the Far Side of the Room by Kindom Of Not

In the only-could-be-original realm caught somewhere between the medieval folk rock pageantry of Donovan and the sonic voodoo rituals of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins there is a new kingdom to contend with.  The Kingdom of Not.

Three years ago I sheepishly inquired of Andrew Goldfarb, The Slow Poisoner, if’n he’d be interested in playing GRIT’s first Old Timey Music and Variety Show.  Completely surprising me, he responded by asking if, in addition to his snake-oile-salesman-one-man-band routine, we would be interested in the new project he was involved in (then called The Wounded Stag).  He forwarded some videos of their work and we were completely sold.

While certainly musical in orientation, the project Goldfarb and frontman Dan Carbone brought south with them is best perceived through the filter of performance art.  Backed by a turbaned and masked Slow Poisoner grinding out his pulsating jungle-folk-psychedelia, Carbone (channeling Buddd Underwood) sings, chants, admonishes, pontificates, and acts out a wide array of fringe characters, fluidly donning costumes, toys, and various other props drawn from the guts of a massive steamer trunk at his feet.

At once both fascinating and alarming, the duo’s performance danced a taut tightrope between luring their audience in close and then abruptly provoking a terrified desire to flee for fear of the cataclysmic happening being conjured.  It was definitely spectacle, definitely a spiritual journey of some sort, and it was definitely enlightening, but it did not leave the audience soothed or reassured about its uncertain place in the vast and scrutinizing (or indifferent) cosmos… and that unwillingness to answer its own questions made the performance truly magnificent.

I have to admit that I was a bit dubious when I heard that Carbone and Goldfarb were going to commit their project to aural recording.  I didn’t know how the living, breathing beast I had witnessed, its name now changed to Kingdom of Not, would translate into an audio only format.  Even so, when the disc came in the mail I fell upon it with eager anticipation.  That anticipation was not disappointed.

While Kingdom of Not’s recording, titled Journey to the Far Side of the Room, is certainly a different creature than the live performance, Carbone and Goldfarb have definitely accomplished a masterful act in bringing the concept of their live Prometheus to the listening-only audience.  It is not a substitute for experiencing their live performance, but as a detailed conceptual narrative it is undeniably its own very important monster.  Its often modal musical drivings, trance inducing at times, possessed of a frenetic energy at others, combined with the sometimes-storyteller-sometimes-eyewitness bard work of Buddd Underwood create a richly decorated otherly world that effectually commands the mind’s eye for the duration of the production.  Not an easy feat when working with such an elaborate aural-oral-visual foundation, but a feat admirably accomplished.

There indeed exists a Kingdom of Not.  Its domain, however, extends considerably beyond the realms capable of being rendered by the recording studio.  That said, if the kingdom could be transferred to a listening-only format, Carbone and Goldfarb have committed to us the best possible manifestation imaginable.  Listen to and embark upon the Journey to the Far Side of the Room, but do so knowing that you will not be able to cease your pilgrimage at the edge of the compact disc.  The kingdom will continue to beckon from beyond the confines of the recording.  Acknowledge and follow.

Stars Pulled Down by Unextraordinary Gentlemen

Okay... I done owed this one since August of 2012.  Sometimes better late than never may not be applicable, but I can always keep my fingers crossed, eh?

Stars Pulled Down by Unextraordinary Gentlemen

Unextraordinary Gentlemen have been sketching out their particular vision of another time and place fantastic and anachronistic for some time now.  Two EPs, 5 Tales From God Only Knows and No Hands to Guide Us, have collected tales of the desperate, disparate, and debauched.  Set to Romanticism soundscapes interpreted in part by the archaic machineries of an industrial revolution, these two offerings have familiarized UXG’s listeners with a Victorian Neverwas inhabited by the noble and the questionable engaged in voyages extraordinaires.  A very European parlour type of Victorian, there has been a strong cane and bussel and top-hattedness to them that is very properish.  But the new longplay, Stars Pulled Down, has delved into something, for lack of a better term, very American.  This new offering finds Unextraordinary Gentlemen having emigrated from the Old World to the New, the wild borders of an indifferent mechanical hinterland whose flesh and bone gears grind themselves away in struggles with mortality and excess.

As with its predecessors, Stars Pulled Down is a collection of musings chronicling forays into both the temporal and the fantastical.  But while UXG’s previous tales unfolded within cosmopolitan settings, this stage is a no man’s land of fog shrouded forest hilltops, frontier towns weathered gray, and sun-scorched peripheries.  The struggles the characters undergo are familiar, but the savagery demanded by these uncivilized locales is that of a brave new world of ruggedness and rough-hewn independence, more whiskey than absinthe.

The most fascinating aspect of Stars Pulled Down is its musical “folkiness.”  There’s a dustiness and Appalachian-ness to its sound wholly appropriate for its duster-clad pioneer and outlaw characters, but it is accomplished without the cliché of banjos and other instruments associated with “old timey.”  Instead, a spareness and primitiveness of electronic instrumentation has been employed to carefully fold the “feeling” of the homegrown, the down home, into the soundscapes.  And atop these brooding sonic terrains a violin casts strains of the olde world, its classical refrains coarsened by the “music of the people” that defines this new unexplored place.

As the listener travels from the Sherman’s March-ishness of “Elephant Head,” through the dimensional warping voyage of “Almost Imaginary,” and into the Gothic Americana playground rhyming of “Kiss the Earth” it is very clear that UXG is moving into new territory.  They even offer a traditional protest tune in “Dawn/Worst of All,” a dirgey account of miners descending into the grave everyday only to resurrect for a few fleeting hours of unrest before the dawn calls them down into the earth once more.  And if these tunes are not pointing out clearly enough the direction UXG is edging in, with “Old No. 9” they present the most venerated of all roots music genres: the train song.  And the ghostly Old No. 9 is not just any train. It’s the juggernaut of steam and steel that carries us to the farthest reach of the new domain Unextraordinary Gentlemen is exploring, the End of the Line.  And in these shifting, uncertain sands of mystery lies the leaving point for “Long Time Gone,” a lament of wanderlust, perhaps the wanderlust that has brought us to this new borderland in the first place.  And what lies beyond?  A new frontier?  The gallows?  Perhaps simply “The End Again.”

Start yer voyage here:

http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/unextraordinarygentlemen2

Gettin' back to the GRIT Blog with a long overdue My Half Ridden Dream review

Been outta practice fer awhile.  Work’ll do that to ya.  One day ya wake up an’ realize: Hell, work is getting’ in the way of all the important stuff!

It’s been happenin’ to me.  I’ve let all this blogging an’ whatnot slip by in favor of keepin’ in good with The Man.

Well, first things first.  I owe some way outta date music reviews, but even outta date I still got stuff to say that I want committed to print so I’m gonna go ahead an’ take care of this business anyways.

Light on in the Hallway by My Half Ridden Dream

The oldest promised musickal commentary I owe is to My Half Ridden Dream.  MHRD is the sometimes-solo project of one Thomas A. Alfera, and in the hustle an’ bustle of 2012 he released a self-produced longplay called Light on in the Hallway.  Late one night many years (possibly decades) past, LA’s Lonesome Cowboy, Jim Ladd, prefaced a playlist by sayin’ that “the next set of music makes me wish I was cruisin’ down Pacific Coast Highway in a 1967 Mustang convertible, the top down, the full moon shinin’ down, the warm summer breeze whipping by…”  I no longer remember what tunes followed that introduction… one of them may have been “LA Woman”… but it’s that specific description that the first spin of Light on in the Hallway brought back to me.

All of the songwriting credits of the new offering go to Alfera and his considerable travels with the American Experience are downright palpable in the musical an’ lyrical odyssey he shares with the listener.  At its heart, Light on in the Hallway is a tale of loves lost and found, in between, and right where you left them; a poignant spirit-quest into the eternal paradoxical co-existence of independence and loneliness and the struggle to find their balance.

The album opens with “Anna Come Home.”  It’s a melancholic memoir, but with its roots-rock forward momentum the tune gives us no option but to press on down the highway.  “Ellen’s Song” and “D.O.I.” continue a pilgrimage that never leaves us at any one roadside stop for very long, emphasizing the bittersweet fact that while our emotional grapplings may never resolve, they do sting less with the distance we can put between them and ourselves.  By the time we reach “The End of Love” and its fuzzed-out, oozing, rock bottom, the miles traveled in philosophical introspection have steadied our psyche enough that we can see around love’s tattered edges.  There is possibility up the road, and even though that possibility may still very well be simply the possibility of disappointment, “Summer Days,” “Genuine Feeling,” and “Happily Classified” affirm we must be strong enough to live through that possibility.

Musically, Light on in the Hallway is possessed of a rich adventure of American sound and vista.  Even so, the songwriter is not trapped in a cliché of the Heartland.  His travels with Americana have taken him across a varied and diverse land and My Half Ridden Dream’s final formula has been baptized in the waters of Southern California, that edge of Western Civilization.  It looks back at the familiar and forward into the unknown simultaneously.  The narrators’ adventures and influences sparkle, but they have been fashioned into a unique voice crying in that wilderness of three chords and the truth.  A voice well suited to explore that duality of cynicism and hope that is the “Light on in the Hallway.”

Hopefully you have a 1967 convertible Mustang and access to Pacific Coast Highway for this one… and if not, close your eyes and let the music take you there anyway.

You can listen to and possess Light on in the Hallway right here:

 http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/myhalfriddendream

"Internally Yours" - New Artworks by Nouar

“Edible, adj.: Good to eat, and wholesome to digest, as a worm to a toad, a toad to a snake, a snake to a pig, a pig to a man, and a man to a worm.” - Ambrose Bierce

"The belly rules the mind." - Spanish Proverb

"ncle Jello" was the first painting of Nouar's that I ever saw in person.

Being the friend of a friend, I had met the artist previously and had acquired some glossy postcards from her; one of the misleadingly innocent “Lemonade Parade” and another of the far more unsettling “You Satisfy Me.”  To say that I was intrigued by the images would be an understatement, and I became more enamored with the work after peering into her repertoire via the internet. 

To the casual looker, Nouar’s work is definitely a playful romp through the ideals of mid-century foodstuff marketing, complete with anthropomorphous manifestations of carousing vittles who sing, dance, and lead us to believe that their sole purpose for existing, their utmost desire in life, is to be consumed.  With a closer look, however, it becomes apparent that there is much more to scrutinize in Nouar’s carefully thought out images than just a well crafted sense of cartoon-ish nostalgia and kitsch.  If you contemplate them even momentarily, the questionable behaviors of Nouar’s characters lead to narratives that transcend the world of food and instead comment on the societal interactions of that most questionable of creatures, the human being.

Food is a brutal contemplation.  It is chopped, crushed, squeezed, diced, gutted, butchered, boiled, fried, grilled, chewed, eaten, digested, consumed.  It is not a far stretch to say that human beings are also a brutal contemplation… and perhaps not much more of a stretch to say that many of those aforementioned brutalities very literally associated with food can be, at the very least figuratively, associated with human interactions and relationships as well.  Under such a light, the theme remains “eat or be eaten”, but the implications become far darker.

But back to the beginning of the story.  “Uncle Jello” was the first painting of Nouar’s that I ever saw in person.  And what a first-person experience it was.  In 2009, the Corey Helford Gallery in Culver City, CA, hosted a group exhibition called the Multi-Plane Show.  For the exhibit, a divers group of contemporary artists were invited to create artworks utilizing a vintage multiple-glass panel animation technique.  Essentially it involved creating images on three separate sheets of glass which were then assembled into layers, bringing a sense of depth and perspective to the content by utilizing the actual space between the pieces of glass.  Most of the artists in the show seemed to take the logical route, using the glass layers to create environmental depth, but “Uncle Jello” was different.  Whereas most of the showpieces involved a looking across or through space, Nouar’s contribution instead chose to use the glass panel technique to look INTO a space.  Where most of the artworks surrounding it had narratives and actions playing themselves out in familiar, tangible locales, the tale perpetrated by “Uncle Jello” played itself out in some indefinable netherworldly innerspace.

Uncle Jello himself was a red-tinted transparent resin sculpture affixed to a pane of glass.  Just head and shoulders, the jello-mold headed gentleman smiled invitingly in his smart bow tie and brown sport coat, a fitting expression for a dashing portrait.  But Uncle Jello’s gentlemanly facade became unshakably sinister when it became evident that there were unhappy faced strawberry people trapped within his gelatin noggin.  At once both charming and alarming, “Uncle Jello” became so much more than simply a three-deep story about the demise of some strawberries.  Who was this belying character?  Who were these poor berries suspended like thoughts within his evidently calculating cranium?  Why were they there?  What had they done?  What lay in store for them?  Would they ever escape?  Could there be an “Uncle Jello” in our own lives? 

The piece really was, to say the least, quite remarkable.  I had been enraptured by the galleries of her work I had perused online, but this was definitely a case of an artist doing something new, fresh, and unprecedented.  If I had not already been a convert to her work, “Uncle Jello” undeniably sealed the commitment.  Nouar had found a way to add a dimension, literally, of meaning to an already complex mixture of symbolisms and motifs.  And being able to accompany the visual, technical element with narrative and vision that made the work truly meaningful is definitely a feather in her artistic hat… beret?

Luckily, the significance of what the artist had brought to the table was not lost on the owners of the gallery.  “Internally Yours”, the Nouar solo exhibit opening at the Corey Helford Gallery on June 11^th, will showcase a body of work birthed in the premise of that first “Uncle Jello.”  Using transparent food as a metaphor for the struggles, entrapments, and vices of our own lives, the exhibit’s artworks continue to explore Nouar’s already established themes of human interaction and relationship.  But experimenting with the new tools afforded her by “Uncle Jello”, Nouar’s new work is taking us on an inward bound journey.  It is a poignant exploration of who or what we hide away on the inside, perhaps ultimately asking us to question whether we may be the ones who are in fact being hidden away by something greater than ourselves.  A journey we should all be looking forward to taking.

"Internally Yours"

Nouar
Opening Reception - Saturday, June 11, 2011 7-10pm 

Corey Helford Gallery

8522 Washington Boulevard
Culver City, CA 90232-7444
(310) 287-2340

On View - June 11 – June 29, 2011
coreyhelfordgallery.com



-Squeezebox Sam